


You Found Another Way To Tell The Truth

by RemainNameless



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek POV, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where the Sheriff finds Derek in Stiles's room in a compromising position and Derek maybe makes it worse. (Or better.)<br/>Derek POV. Because this is a thing there needs to be more of.</p><p>aka What I want to happen in episode 3x04</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Found Another Way To Tell The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Morning Benders' "Excuses".
> 
> References to past relationship to Kate. The only thing that's not show-level appropriate is a single F-bomb.

It’s Stiles’s fault. Totally and completely Stiles’s fault. Without question.

(Okay, maybe it’s a little bit Derek’s, too.)

 

They're in Stiles's room because he'd all but forced Derek into his car after the attack in the woods, and his silence had been too sharp to break.

Derek says, “Look, if you hadn’t been in the way—“

“ _In the way_? I was doing Recon. You _approved_ when I told you about it! It wasn’t dangerous until _you_ showed up with that Alpha on your back. _That_ was when things got hairy.” Really? He thinks joking’s appropriate right now? If it weren't for the Wet Wipes in Stiles's glove compartment, he'd still have the other Alpha's blood on his hands.

Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn't even meant to kill him, but he'd tried to go for Stiles, and, well, things got out of hand a little bit.

“You’re still bleeding, you know.”

He looks down at his chest. The bloodstain around the rip in his shirt does look a little bigger than he remembers seeing in the car. The shirt’s a wreck, no more than a rag now, so he pulls it over his head and holds it to the three parallel gashes in his side. They're healing, he thinks, but sluggishly.

“They knew you were there,” Derek says. “The one I killed was going to kidnap you.” Now Stiles sighs, running a hand through his short hair. It sticks up when his hand falls to his side. His eyes are wide with exhaustion. 

“Sit down. I’ll clean that up,” he says with a weariness Derek feels.

“It’s fine. It’ll heal—“

Stiles points at his desk chair. “Sit _. Down._ Or so help me, I will murder you slowly.”

His anger looks like it’s building rather than shrinking, and while part of him wants to rise to it, Derek can see the way Stiles's hands are shaking as the adrenaline wears off, and he’s always found for himself that anger smooths the transition between wired and exhausted. So he sits. And he’ll let Stiles be angry. 

“You are so _ridiculous_ ,” Stiles says as he yanks a drawer out of the desk. “And you never let people take care of you.” He starts laying on some gauze, and Derek’s unable to think about anything other than the steady pain from his side. “That’s a character flaw, you know. I’m serious. Watch any movie with an action hero. He may be tough and buff as hell, but he always lets the girl bandage his wounds. Not that I’m the girl in this scenario. I’m just giving you practice. Girls love a guy with a soft side.”

“Really?" he asks through gritted teeth. "Is that why Lydia is with Jackson?” It’s snide and low, and he knows it, but Stiles has been simmering for weeks, months even, a quiet sensory hum of anger that he hasn’t let out. When Derek’s angry like that, he gets to shift and go for a run through the woods for catharsis. Stiles needs his own catharsis, and maybe that’s raging at Derek.

“Stop talking. I mean it.” He puts the first aid kit away. “I don’t even really like her anymore. So shut up about it.”

Derek looks at him, offering a challenge. “Am I supposed to believe that?”

It happens so fast, he doesn’t realize it in time to stop it.

Stiles is trying to get into his space to threaten him or something, but he trips on his rug and goes sprawling onto Derek’s lap, their bodies colliding in a way that’s sure to leave bruises on pale skin. Derek’s nose aches where it’s pressed into Stiles’s neck, and he’s about to growl at him or something (figuratively, of course) when the worst happens.

Stiles’s door opens.

Derek should have heard, should have been paying more attention to his surroundings but he hasn’t slept yet this week and it’s made him slow. Slow is not what he wants to be right now. Since the Sheriff is standing in the doorway with a horrified mixture of expressions and a gun on his hip.

“Stiles? What the _hell_ is going on here?” Stiles stops moving, and Derek realizes that his knee is stuck between Derek’s thigh and the arm of the chair. Meaning he's _all_ over Derek's lap. It must look _bad_.

Stiles turns, offering what must be the least convincing smile ever. “Nothing. No, sir. Nothing’s going on here at all.”

“Kitchen. Both of you. _Now_ ,” the Sheriff says, and Derek knows he’s human, but there’s still something intimidating about him. “And Hale, put on a goddamn shirt.”

 

He sits them down at the kitchen table like an interrogation. Derek’s been here, is the worst part. He’s sat with a table between them and probing questions coming from the other side. It hadn’t been exactly pleasant.

“Look, Dad, I can explain—“

The Sheriff raises a hand. “I don’t want to hear another word from you. You’ve lied to me so many times in the past year, I can’t believe a single word you say.” 

When Stiles slumps, the faint scent of his grief spills out. Derek hadn’t realized it was this bad for him. That he’s been sacrificing not just his time and his sleep and his life but his father’s trust, too. 

“So tell me, Derek, what’s a man in my position supposed to do? Let’s say you’re me, you’re the Sheriff and a father, and you find out that your _underage_ son and a man you’ve arrested, interrogated, and heard about—“

“He was exonerated,” Stiles says weakly, earning a glare.

“Fine. Your son and an _exonerated_ former suspect of a series of violent crimes whose name still came up for suspicious reasons in those cases _that you investigated_ , as well as being there, for reasons unknown, when four good cops were murdered that night at the station, this man and your son were in his room half-naked. You want to tell me what the hell you would do in a situation like that?”

He can feel Stiles’s eyes on him, but he’s locked in eye contact with his father. “I think I would let that man give his side of the story.” The Sheriff seems to consider it. After a moment, he grabs a chair, flips it around so the back is against the table, and sits. 

“Then _by all means_.” He opens his hands in a gesture that’s far less friendly that it’s usually meant. 

This is shaky ground, here. He knows that the Sheriff won’t accept that it wasn’t what it looked like, and he doesn’t have Stiles’s permission to tell him about werewolves, to bring the Sheriff into the thick of things. If he did tell, Stiles would likely never speak to him again, which isn’t an option. He’s too useful, and though Derek will never tell him, he likes the kid. He’s funny. And challenging even when he should be afraid. They’re not friends, of course, because Derek doesn’t do _friends_ , but Peter’s been telling him to offer the bite, to make him pack. It's never felt right because even though there's no concrete reason for Derek to feel it, Stiles already is. 

“I’m in love with your son,” is what he says, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dark shape of Stiles’s gaping mouth. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while, and I love him.” He doesn’t listen to his own pulse.

“Is that supposed to make any of this better?” the Sheriff asks, looking at both of them. 

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just the truth. I figured you’d rather hear that then a lie. And the truth is that we’ve been sneaking around for a while, though I will say, not because I wanted to. Stiles felt that we should wait a while longer before he introduced me to you as his boyfriend—“ he hears Stiles’s throat catch at the word “—because he was worried that you might react _strongly_. There were more shotguns, the way he described it, but I don’t have any bullet holes in me, so I think we’re off to a good start.” He smiles a little, really forces it. “Look, I know it’s not what you want for your kid. The last thing any parent wants is their child to bring home a twenty-four-year-old with a history of trouble with the law, but it could be worse."

"Yeah? What, you could have actually been convincted?" The Sheriff leans over the table a little, a clear threat.

"No. I could have burned your house down and killed nearly your entire family.” 

Stiles’s hands slip from covering his face. He’d been the first person Derek had told about how the fire really happened. He’d been angry because Derek was excluding Allison from helping, meaning Scott had basically told him to fuck off and ran off, and Stiles had come up to him and jabbed his finger into Derek’s chest and said, _She’s not Kate and she never will be. Not if you show her how good you are_. He’d told Stiles the truth to correct him on the last part, but he’d just sat him down and said, _I killed my mom when I was eleven_. After that, they hadn't been friends, but he'd placed some trust in Stiles. More than he had in anyone for a long, long time.

The Sheriff is the second person who knows now, and Derek’s hoping he can use it to their advantage. 

“We’d always wondered how she got in,” the Sheriff says quietly, rubbing his face. “It was the one thing that never quite fit. I never thought…”

Derek nods once. “So when I say that I have no interest in manipulating your son in any way or using his age against him, I mean it. I didn’t want to get involved with him in the first place, but we were both trying to figure out who killed Laura, and somehow, we started working together. And then…well, he told me that he liked me and I told him I couldn’t…not then, not until he was older, and that night, he took Lydia Martin to the dance. We found out about Peter, and he killed Kate, and I don’t know. He was there, and he cared. No one but Laura ever did that. I mean, you’ve heard him argue. He’s convincing when he wants to be.” 

As soon as he’d said Stiles had been the one to try something, he’d started kicking Derek under the table, with more and more force when he’d kept going. But now, the Sheriff’s looking at him with his chin in his hands, elbows propped against the table like his head is so heavy he has to hold it up, and Stiles stops kicking. Because maybe Derek had gambled a little, but he knows that the Sheriff wouldn’t have taken to Derek being the aggressor. Not at all.

“After that, well, Mr. Lahey was murdered. Stiles wanted to find out who did it. I wasn’t going to let him put himself in danger, so I did what I could to keep him safe.”

The Sheriff massages his temples. “I shouldn’t have let you watch Veronica Mars as a kid,” he says, looking at Stiles. “You tried to tell me, didn’t you? At the hospital, when the Martin girl was attacked, you said you knew him better than you’d let on. And at that club, you tried to tell me again, but I wouldn't let you. Jesus. I should’ve listened.” He sighs. “You know, I was starting to think you were involved. I mean, not at first, but you’re always at the crime scenes, Stiles. And so many people were killed. I tried to protect you, because I thought maybe…maybe you had something do with it. I didn’t like the idea, but what was I supposed to think? But this makes more sense. I suppose it’s partially my fault. Why couldn’t I have just been an accountant? Then maybe you’d be trying to do my taxes or W-2’s instead of this mess.” 

Stiles is smiling a little, and in a lot of ways, the moment hurts Derek. Because he can feel the love between them, tried and tested but still strong. It wasn’t just that he can’t have that with his own dad anymore; he never did in the first place. He’d been a mama’s boy, and Laura used to tease him about it, once upon a time, but he looks at Stiles and his dad and it hurts in a good way.

“So. I’m going to be a dad now and put some rules down,” the Sheriff says, looking at Derek now. “First, you’re coming over for dinner at least once a week. You can be in his room only while I’m here, and the door stays open. And you’ve gotta go by midnight. I’ll be the one to show you out. If you two decide to go out, know that I have eyes everywhere in town and your curfew still applies. Got it?” They both nod. “Good. I’ll allow you to appeal any of these rules in six weeks. At dinner.”

“Thank you, Dad—“

“I’m not done,” the Sheriff says, holding up a hand. “Now, we’ve been a little understaffed for a while. Our only recent hires have be a couple of nearly-retired mall cops. You look strong, I know you can run, and the rest we can teach you, so I want you to apply to be a deputy. Something tells me you won’t disappoint me. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes sir,” Derek says quickly, and when he extends a hand, Derek shakes it. 

“Now, I’m going to order a pizza, and we’re going to have dinner.” He looks at Stiles. “You _may_ go upstairs, but like I said, the door stays open. No funny business.”

“Of course not, Dad! Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m pretty my balls have retracted all the way to my liver in fear so—“

“ _Way_ too much information,” the Sheriff says, one hand over his eyes. “Get out of my sight while I try to get that image out of my head.” 

Stiles is out of his chair and halfway out the kitchen when Derek says, “Thank you very much, sir.” He hears Stiles’s steps racing up the stairs, probably going to go prepare the rant he’s going to throw at Derek when he gets up there.

“Save it for work. You can call me Mr. Stilinski until you earn first name privileges.” There’s a hint of a smile there, which Derek returns.

“And how do I earn those?”

Mr. Stilinski chuckles. “Abstinence, preferably.” Not surprising at all, and Derek nods. “But I’m a realist, and I’ve been his age. I know that if you haven’t yet, you will, and you old enough that you don’t need a safe sex talk from me. So just remember that he’s my only son and if you hurt him in any way, shape, or form, what I’ll do to you? Just because it’ll look like an accident doesn’t mean it won’t be painful.”

“Message received, loud and clear.” 

“Good. You like meat on your pizza?” Derek nods. “Thank God. We outnumber him.” He pulls out his phone and waves Derek away. 

Derek doesn’t quite smile because he’s not _happy_ , but he’s safe and Stiles is safe, and maybe he’ll be able to relax a little.

Of course, Stiles is pacing in his room, waiting for him, but that’s okay.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Stiles hisses. “That’s not exactly the explanation I had in mind, and there’s going to be a whole new set of problems because of it.”

“I know.”

“Good. Because my God, that went ten times better than I thought it would. I honestly thought he was going to shoot you and then we’d have to explain why you were healing and it would be really ugly.” 

“I know.”

Stiles sighs, frowning at him. “And you’re okay with all of this? With my dad thinking we’re dating? You know Scott’s going to joke about it forever.”

“I’m well aware.” 

“You’re very composed about all of this for someone who only very nearly escaped with their life.” He looks a little suspicious almost.

Derek shrugs. “I’m in mortal peril pretty much, like, every Monday, so…”

Stiles makes an exasperated noise, flails a little, and throws himself onto his bed. “Well, fine, then. I expect your letter jacket in my possession by tomorrow morning before school. And I’m thinking promise rings might be a good idea. My Dad sure as hell would appreciate it.”

“I dunno,” Derek says, smirking, “he did basically give me permission as long as we use protection.” 

Stiles’s jaw drops, eyes narrowing, and then he tries to say something almost, but it kind of looks like he’s crying. His range of facial expressions is always something that’s amused Derek. He makes an effort not to be too expressive, but seeing someone whose face is an open book for their thoughts, well, it makes him reconsider that effort sometimes. And no, Derek doesn’t think Stiles wears _everything_ on his sleeve, he knows there’s always more to him than meets the eye, and maybe it’s all just an act. Maybe he hides behind too much emotion instead of none. But the thing is, Derek feels like he _knows_ him. Always has, really. 

“Well, you know what? It’s pretty arrogant of you to think I’d just give it up. Maybe I was planning on waiting until marriage.” 

Derek attempts to convey just how little he believes that with a single raised eyebrow, but he finds himself laughing instead, not much, but enough that he can’t pretend that he didn’t. 

“Wow. I never thought that all it would take is me pretending I have some appreciation for chastity,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to get a laugh out of you for months, you know. I consider it a personal mission. But _whup_ , there it is.” 

If he said he isn’t touched by that, he knows he’d hear the uptick in his pulse loud and clear. 

“You know, I never thought my first boyfriend would be one I can’t even make out with. You’re helping me set new levels of loserdom. Thanks for that. Really.”

Derek shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Stiles flails a little, falling off his bed with a thump. His heart’s beating a little faster. Probably shock.

“So, to be clear,” he says, hands out in front of him, “when you say you wouldn’t say that, do you mean you wouldn’t say that I’m a loser or that we can’t make out? Because those are two very different things. Not that I wouldn’t be happy that you’re saying I’m not a loser.” He looks like he regrets that, barreling on with, “I mean, not that I want to make out with you. Unless you want to— I mean, _do_ you want to? Because I could go both ways. Well, I _do_ go both ways, but that’s not— Can you help me out here?” His fingers are pinching his lower lip, maybe an unconscious reference to kissing or an attempt to control his mouth. It’s…well, it’s endearing. 

“Pizza’s here,” he says, avoiding the question. “Your dad will come get us soon. No reason to scar him with mental images _twice_ in an evening.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I’m not even sure if that’s a yes because I think you broke my brain, but I’m going to take it as a raincheck for horizontal activities later.” 

“Let’s go downstairs,” he says, rolling his eyes. He’s smiling a little, though, as he turns to the open doorway.

“Wait!” Stiles calls at him from the floor. “Does this mean you love me?”

Derek stops, one hand on the doorframe, thinking. He can hear Mr. Stilinski at the bottom of the stairs, and he’s pretty sure he heard that. He’s not sure if that’s why he says what he says, but his heart is steady.

“That’s what I said, idiot.” He wonders when that first became a term of endearment. “Now come on. I hope you like Meat Lover’s.”


End file.
